


Something Strange

by enigma731



Category: Ghostbusters (2016), Ghostbusters - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crack, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Ghosts, Humor, POV Multiple, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Heimdall detected a disturbance,” says Thor, “in the mystic energy that lies beneath this city. I’ve been tasked with investigating the threat. It seems the best way to do that is through--infiltration of some Midgardian organization. In light of the recent tensions.” That last sounds vaguely reproachful.</em>
</p><p>  <em>Clint blinks, letting this news sink in. “Wait. So what you’re saying is that you need to go undercover. And you want Nat to help you?”</em></p><p>Ghosts in New York City would be a perfectly good reason to assemble the Avengers. Too bad that team doesn't exist anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Strange

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to [queenofthepuddingbrains](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthepuddingbrains), without whom this (and countless other awesome things) would never have happened.

The thing about New York City is that it’s a great place to hide.

Clint saw it time and again during his SHIELD days, nearly tagging more marks here than in the rest of the world combined. He’s never been quite sure how to take that--whether it’s a tribute to the greatest city on earth, or if he ought to be concerned that he’s living right in the middle of some cosmic vortex of weird. Either way, it’s coming in handy now.

He might have thought Natasha was a little nuts when she suggested that ‘off the grid’ could mean _here_ , just a few miles away from the Tower, close enough that he can still see it on the skyline, in fact. Nevermind that the entirety of their new place is roughly the size of his bathrooms in either the Tower or the Compound, or that it feels vaguely like an oven in the summer, _or_ that he’s slowly going insane peddling souvenirs from a newsstand for minimum wage. It beats being on the run, or living in a cabin on an isolated mountain somewhere. That’s his story, anyway, and he’s sticking to it.

The thunderbolt comes in the middle of the afternoon, on the hottest day of the summer to date, so at first he doesn’t think much of it. Clint catches the flash of rainbow light out of the corner of one eye, but his mind passes it off as some particularly garish tour vehicle driving by the window of the apartment building. Until it’s followed by a knock on the door roughly thirty seconds later.

Clint freezes. He’s generally not one for paranoia--that’s all Natasha’s territory, and it’s probably a good thing that she isn’t home. But there’s still enough memories of the Raft rattling around in his head to remind him that he really doesn’t want to go back there, which means he ought to be executing one of the half-dozen emergency escape plans they’ve discussed right about now. Instead he opens the door, his body moving instinctively before his mind’s managed to think better of it.

He curses himself silently--then blinks. Thor is standing outside his door, looking far too big--too _Asgardian_ , really--for the dingy little hallway. Hell, his hair still appears to be blowing gently in the nonexistent breeze, Mjolnir dangling casually from one hand as though he’s about to march into battle at any moment.

“Um,” says Clint, “hi?”

“I should come inside,” says Thor, glancing furtively around. The hallway is empty, because even in this crappy building, most people have normal jobs with normal hours. Unlike Clint’s, which has the distinction of being the only graveyard souvenir shift he’s ever heard of.

“Yes,” Clint agrees, stepping back out of the doorway and suddenly wishing he’d done something with the pile of dirty dishes Natasha’s been threatening to crack over his head for the past few days.

“Thank you,” says Thor, glancing around for a moment before setting the hammer down between the trashcan and a pair of boots Clint’s pretty sure Natasha has actually used to kill a man. (Correction: men.)

“Right,” says Clint, running a hand through his hair uncomfortably. “So--How did you find me? Because if anyone asks, I’m totally still in prison.” He pauses, another thought occurring to him. “Wait. Do you even know about that?”

“Unfortunately,” says Thor, looking chagrined. “Heimdall located you for me. It’s a trivial task for him.”

Clint sighs. He’s willing to bet even Natasha failed to consider _that_ particular aspect of their current situation. Then again, it’s not like there are many contingencies to be had for ‘discovered by alien demigods on the other side of a portal.’ That’s probably one they’ll just have to live with.

“And why are you here?” he asks, then realizes that probably sounds rude. “I mean-- _here_ , specifically. In my kitchen-living-bedroom. As opposed to, you know, the Compound. Or the Tower. Or somewhere with more than three hundred square feet.”

“I need to speak to Natasha,” says Thor, stumbling a bit, as always, over the lack of an honorific. “I require her advice.”

Clint raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “She’s not here. She’s at work.”

“Work?” asks Thor, sounding vaguely surprised. Apparently Heimdall’s sight didn’t include this particular detail, or at least he didn’t see fit to share it.

“You know that show _Matriarchs of Manhattan_?” asks Clint, wondering suddenly whether television is a thing in Asgard.

To his surprise, Thor just nods. “With the women who drink martinis and yell at one another.”

“Yes,” says Clint. “Well, Nat is working security for Marie Miri. She’s the main one, with the blonde hair.”

Thor shrugs. “They’ve all got blonde hair.”

“Yeah,” Clint says dismissively. “Well, the main one. Not that it matters. She’ll be back later tonight, if you want to wait around. What did you need? Maybe I can help.”

“Heimdall detected a disturbance,” says Thor, “in the mystic energy that lies beneath this city.”

Clint frowns. “What, like a super full moon? That would explain a lot of things.”

“I don’t know,” says Thor, all business now. “But it could be very dangerous. I’ve been tasked with investigating the threat. It seems the best way to do that is through--infiltration of some Midgardian organization. In light of the recent tensions.” That last sounds vaguely reproachful.

Clint blinks, letting this news sink in. “Wait. So what you’re saying is that you need to go undercover. And you want Nat to help you?”

Thor nods, leading with his earnest eagerness again. “Precisely.”

* * *

If anyone had told Natasha that her day could get weirder than eight hours quietly watching over reality television stars, she probably would have called them a liar. And that’s given the fact that she’s just come off four years featuring aliens, murderbots, and sharing a residence with Tony Stark. Really, if there’s any population that actually _deserves_ the Raft, Natasha is pretty certain that reality stars are it. It’s a damn good thing the _Matriarchs_ don’t have any superpowers, or they’d probably lay waste to far more than a UN convention and an international airport.

But now she’s finished with all of that, at least for today. Now, she’s sitting at the plastic folding table in her painfully small apartment, Clint crowded in at her elbow as they watch a Youtube video of a ghost. Not to mention the demigod standing behind them, bouncing eagerly on his toes as he takes in their reactions.

The ghost--if that’s what it is--is strangely attractive, at least to begin with. So are the women who are documenting the phenomenon, scientists according to the video’s description. The slime is a surprise, Natasha has to admit, and it’s anything _but_ attractive, though it’s a neat effect. Takes things a step further than the image alone, which she’s forced to conclude looks an awful lot like computer animation. Then again, she’d have said the same about a half dozen things she’s seen firsthand, had she not been there.

Still, she is not about to call in the Asgardian cavalry on the basis of a viral video. She turns to Thor. “You think this is real because…?”

He nods, apparently having anticipated this objection. “Heimdall assures me that there are real phenomena at play here. Cosmic forces beyond the comprehension of human traditions.”

“Oh,” says Clint. “Well that’s not patronizing at all.”

“I am merely stating the truth,” says Thor. “When Heimdall says there is a threat, I do not question him. Watching over the Nine Realms is his duty.”  
“Right,” says Clint, still sounding skeptical. “And he does that by watching viral videos?”

Natasha sighs, elbowing him. “So. Assuming that this is real, and New York really is about to get overrun by the Skeleton War, what do you need from me?”

Thor nods again, stepping in to pick up the laptop and freeze the video on a frame of the three scientists at the end, slime and all. “These women are experts in the field of--well, whatever this is. They’ve formed an organization for their investigations--they’re calling themselves the Conductors of the Metaphysical Examination.”

Clint makes a face. “Not very catchy.”

Thor shrugs. “Regardless. They are the experts in this case. It seems that if I am to investigate this phenomenon, I must make them my allies. Fortunately, they appear to be hiring.”

“And you want to be--what, a _Ghost Jumper_?” asks Clint.

“No!” says Thor, sounding vaguely horrified. “No, no, no. That’s a TV show. These are scientists.”

“So you want to go undercover as a scientist?” asks Natasha, already trying to picture that scenario. “Not a good idea.”

Thor’s brow furrows. “Why not?”

She gives him a small, tight smile. “Tell me, Dr. Odinson, what equipment do you use in your paranormal investigations?”

Thor blinks, looking flummoxed.

“What’s the most convincing evidence you’ve ever captured on one of your investigations?” asks Natasha, watching him closely.

“Well--” he begins, still sounding uncomfortable.

“What are your standards for debunking potential evidence?” Natasha continues, not giving him a chance to come up with an answer for the last. “How do you ensure that nuisance variables don’t interfere with your investigations?”

“Um,” says Thor. “I--have Heimdall.”

Natasha snorts. “And now your cover is blown. Congratulations. You didn’t even make it through the job interview.”

Thor shakes his head. “I see your point. So what do you suggest?”

She considers for a moment. “Are they hiring for any other positions? Support staff?”

“Secretary,” Thor says immediately. “And graphic designer.”

Natasha smiles again, this time genuinely. “Excellent.”

* * *

“First rule of going undercover,” says Natasha, “is that your cover’s intelligence should always be inferior to your own.” She has a distinct sense of nostalgia about this conversation, feels like she ought to be writing on a whiteboard in the front of a SHIELD classroom. Hard to believe it’s been more than two years since she last found herself there. Harder to believe that she never will again.

Thor is seated on the edge of the bed now, still looking too big and too dramatic for the little apartment. It feels as though his bulk is occupying at least half the space, like he might be in danger of bumping his head on the ceiling if he were to stand up again.

“What she means,” says Clint, “is that your alter ego should probably be kind of a useless idiot.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “That is not what I said or what I mean.”

Thor glances back and forth between them, looking as though he wishes he had a notepad and pen, like he might wish he really _was_ a recruit she’d been tasked with beating into shape.

“What did you mean?” he asks, finally.

“I meant what I said,” says Natasha, sighing. “Make sure that your cover identity is always performing at a lower level of skill than _your_ best. The last thing you want to do is create an expectation you can’t meet, or that you’ll struggle to meet. You’ll get fatigued, and you’ll blow it.”

“Be a useless idiot,” Clint stage-whispers, cupping a hand around his mouth for added dramatic effect.

* * *

“Second rule,” says Natasha. “Your cover’s strength and abilities should always be inferior to your own.”

Thor nods studiously at this. “No thunder. And no hammer.”

“Don’t forget no flying,” Clint interjects. “Does anyone else want pizza? I’m going to order a pizza.”

* * *

“Third rule,” she begins, but doesn’t get any further.

“I know this one!” Clint breaks in, because apparently he’s nothing if not a little stir-crazy tonight. “‘Your cover should be a boring average dude.’”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “Interesting paraphrase.”

He shrugs. “Hey, I took your class too.”

“The rule,” says Natasha. “Is that your cover should never be more than average. For any of his traits. A little below average is fine, but you don’t want anything to be especially notable, unless that’s part of your strategy. You don’t want to stand out in a way that will invite questions.”

“Like your name,” says Clint. “Have you thought about that yet? It should be something generic and boring.”

“Billy,” says Thor.

Clint snorts. “Not unless you’re planning to wear a lot of flannel shirts. And possibly be a country singer.”

“Dylan,” Thor tries again.

“Are you actually going through musicians in your head now?” Clint shakes his head sadly. “Hey, I have an idea. Steve.”

Natasha elbows him in the ribs, which earns her a dramatic groan. “If you’re not going to be helpful, then shut up.”

“Kevin,” Thor says, after another moment of thought. “Is that sufficiently boring?”

Clint grins. “Perfect. I’m calling you that forever.”

* * *

“You’re really gonna do this?” Clint asks incredulously. They’ve migrated to the bathroom now, Thor seated precariously on the edge of the bathtub while Natasha arranges supplies on the counter. Clint is leaning against the doorframe, a half-eaten slice of pizza slowly dripping grease onto one hand.

Natasha’s fourth rule is _change your physical appearance_ which, in this case, involves shaving and a hair cut. Natasha is more than capable of the latter, which Clint knows firsthand. But that doesn’t mean he has to share that knowledge with any thunder gods who happen to be at her mercy at the moment.

Thor shrugs. “I’ve made greater sacrifices in the line of battle.”

“I don’t know,” says Clint, shaking his head. “There goes the L’Oreal contract.”

Thor frowns. “The what?”

“Shampoo,” says Clint. “I don’t think you realize how much you could make if you tried to monetize those golden locks.”

“If you don’t knock it off,” says Natasha, “I’m going to tie you up and gag you.”

Clint waggles his eyebrows. “Please do.”

* * *

“Final rule,” says Natasha, “is that you’ll want to do something to change your voice. Especially given that your accent is pretty distinctive here. And there might be--parties other than your Conductors of the Metaphysical Whatever who might be suspicious of Avengers suddenly reappearing in New York, if you know what I mean.”

Thor gives her a look. “I believe you humans have a saying about ‘pot’ and ‘kettle.’”

Clint snorts, though his attention is once again focused on the screen of the laptop, where he appears to be searching for something, typing furiously. “I’m impressed, Kevin. You and Steve been studying up on your Midgardian memes together?”

“I do not believe I possess your skill at languages,” Thor says to Natasha, apparently not deigning to rise to Clint’s bait. “I fear that impersonating a human from New York is beyond my abilities.”

“Right,” says Clint, as though the concern’s been aimed solely at him. “I thought you might say that. Think I’ve got something a little more in your wheelhouse here. So to speak.”

He appears to have an answer, so Natasha decides to let him finish, though she hopes it’s more productive than his last few pieces of wisdom.

Clint produces a set of headphones from beneath some of the mess on the kitchen counter and passes them over, apparently choosing not to comment on the fact that they look comically small in Thor’s hands. “Listen to this. Then give it a try.”

They sit in silence for the first solid five minutes since Natasha got home from work, watching Thor study the video. Natasha can’t see the screen, has no idea what he’s seeing or hearing, though her curiosity is definitely piqued between Thor’s look of concentration and Clint’s smug grin.

Finally, Thor takes the earbuds out, looks back and forth between Clint and Natasha before tentatively opening his mouth. “G’day, mate?”

Clint snorts helplessly, looking positively gleeful. “You sound like the Crocodile Hunter.”

Thor’s brow furrows. “Is he a great warrior?”

Natasha sighs. “No, he’s--You know what? It doesn’t matter. This actually isn’t a bad idea, you just need to practice a little more.”

“Make that a lot more,” says Clint. He turns to Natasha. “If he manages to pass for an actual Aussie, I’m buying your next drink.”

* * *

“Wow,” says Clint, when Thor emerges from the bathroom for the final time. He’s practically unrecognizable now, dressed in tight jeans and a polo shirt that’s straining at the sleeves, hair the shortest Clint’s ever seen. He has to hand it to Natasha--she’s actually managed to transform the God of Thunder into a halfway believable secretary. In just one evening, to boot.

“I think,” says Thor, managing a halfway believable accent now, too, “I’m ready for my interview.”

Natasha shakes her head. “One more thing.” She holds up the laptop, where she’s been studying the job description from the Conductors’ ad. “They want you to come with a graphic design portfolio of possible logos for their business.”

Clint grins, now fully convinced that Thor’s unexpected visit is the best thing that’s happened since he discovered the two-for-one pizza deal across the street. “I can help with that.”

* * *

The video falls through the holes in the net of Tony’s brand new Stark Threat Identification Algorithm, designed to alert him to anything in the digital sphere that might require intervention. (By whom is a bridge he hasn’t yet crossed; it’s not like he has Avengers or SHIELD agents or even Ross’s taskforce to call upon anymore. Fortunately, so far that question hasn’t needed an answer.)

The subway ghost is all over the news, and more importantly all over the internet--trending on Facebook and Twitter within minutes of the post, gifed in its entirety almost as fast, and has spawned half a dozen memes by the time the so-called experts deign to opine that it’s a fake. Not that the internet really cares.

Tony sees it while scrolling through the multitude of stories the Algorithm’s relegated to digital refuse. Because, though he might have written this program in the name of making his life simpler, he can’t seem to shake the sense that it’s missing things. Current case in point.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.,” he calls, after watching the video twice, “analyze this for me.”

“What metrics would you like extracted, boss?” Her voice booms through the speakers of the television in the common room, which he’s been using as his personal oversized monitor. The Compound still feels far too large, now that he’s got it mostly to himself.

Tony thinks for a moment. “Check frame rate. Look for digital artifacts. See if you can determine whether it’s real or CGI.”

“Analyzing,” says F.R.I.D.A.Y., and the images run lightning-fast on the television screen, first forward, then backward, then pausing several times. “Result: inconclusive.”

Tony sighs. “So you can’t tell if that’s an actual ghost?”

“Comparison footage for ‘ghost’ not found,” says F.R.I.D.A.Y.

From the doorway, Rhodey laughs. “Seriously, man? We sure that’s not just Vis checking out the public transit scene?”

Tony rolls his eyes, playing the video from the start again. “This is everywhere right now. I don’t think we should just dismiss it.”

“Right,” says Rhodey. “That’s a great litmus test.”

“I’ll bet you dinner,” says Tony. “A week from now, you’ll be glad I was looking out for this.”

Rhodey grins. “You’re on. I can’t wait to make that reservation for Tony Stank.”

* * *

The subway ghost is a thing of nightmares, projected onto the giant holographic video display that graces the ceiling of the SLS Casino.

To be perfectly fair, it would be a thing of nightmares _anyway_ , but at roughly one hundred feet long, in full Vegas night club HD-3D video, it’s a thing Wanda won’t be able to un-see anytime soon. And that’s saying a lot, all things considered.

“Holy shit!” Scott exclaims beside her, momentarily choking on his drink. “That’s new.”

“It’s from the news tonight,” says Wanda, reaching out with the edges of her awareness, letting the Mind Stone’s essence read the room around her. There’s a lot of buzz here, mostly people focused on striking it rich, but a fair number of them are thinking about the ghost, too. Curious about the ghost. “It’s real. Or--people think it’s real, anyway.”

“Huh,” says Scott, apparently unfazed by this now that he’s gotten over the shock of having the video appear in all its gargantuan glory. He cocks his head toward the Blackjack tables in one corner. “Shall we start there?”

Wanda sighs and nods. They’ve been hustling here long enough that she’s mostly gotten over her sense of guilt about it, but it still feels like a big step backwards from being an Avenger. It reminds her of the time before the team, before Hydra, even, when she and Pietro were truly on their own.

“Something wrong?” Scott prods, though not impatiently.

She shakes her head. “No. Just--part of me was expecting to get a call from Steve, just then. Time to assemble the team. But there isn’t a team to assemble anymore.”

“Come on,” says Scott, resting a hand on her arm for a moment. “When we’re done tonight, I’m buying dessert.”

* * *

“You actually said _goat_?” Natasha winces, as if that expression might somehow be transmitted through the phone that’s currently pressed to her ear, and gestures for Clint to give her the mug of coffee he’s just poured for himself. “Yes. I do think that was too much. Dial it back, like, at least twenty five percent.You’re going for unremarkable, not total idiot.”

* * *

“Hey,” calls Clint, the moment that Natasha walks in the door.

He’s sitting at the table, the laptop open in front of him in what’s become his default position when he’s not at work. But today he’s got the sound on, and there’s a racket coming out of the speakers like nothing she’s ever heard before.

Instant migraine, she thinks, and winces. “What the hell?”

Clint grins. “Come look. It’s--Just come look. Words won’t do it justice.”

She sighs and moves to stand behind him, glancing tentatively over his shoulder. She’s half expecting it to be a prank, the sort of unsophisticated screamer website that makes her feel like it’s circa 2001. That’s exactly the sort of entertainment Clint’s been into lately, because life in hiding is most definitely driving him slowly insane.

The video appears to be showing a band in concert, and Natasha wrinkles her nose. “That’s supposed to be music?”

Clint shrugs. “Well--sort of.”

It’s then that Natasha sees the smashed pieces of scenery, the disturbed looks on spectators’ faces. And then the creature flies into the frame. For a moment she nearly dismisses the whole thing, nearly slugs Clint for pulling the precise joke she’s been anticipating.

“Wait,” he interrupts, apparently sensing her exasperation.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Tell me what I’m supposed to be seeing.”

He jabs a finger at the computer as he talks, pointing out figures in the crowd. “These are Thor’s new boss ladies. And that--” He manages to hit the screen with a particularly vigorous gesture, breaks off for a second while he rights it. “That is a ghost.”

She sighs, examining the video tiredly, instinctive mental calculations running as she does. “It’s--something. I’ll give you that.”

Clint snorts. “High praise from the Black Widow.”

“Come on,” says Natasha, folding her arms. “With everything we’ve seen the past few years--aliens and Inhumans and Infinity Gems--You’re going to just assume _ghost_?”

He blinks at her. “Well--yeah? You’re not?”

She shrugs. “I prefer the idea of mortality.”

“You would,” says Clint. He closes the video of the concert and opens an episode of _Ghost Jumpers_ , giving Natasha his best smug look.

* * *

“Do you seriously have your robots hunting ghosts?”

Tony jumps at the sound of Rhodey’s voice. He’s lost track of the time--of the fact that the sun’s gone down and come up again while he’s been working. Not that that’s such an unusual occurrence. It’s not like he really has anybody expecting him to maintain a functional human schedule these days. Plus, Rhodey’s gotten so adept, so quiet with his newest set of AI-assisted orthoses that he might as well be a damned cat.

“Not hunting,” says Tony, scrubbing a hand over his eyes before turning around to face Rhodey. “Monitoring. Two different things. ‘Hunting’ implies pursuit. This is strictly surveillance.”

Between them, a holographic map of New York fills the space of the lab, the locations of paranormal hotspots his algorithms have extracted from the internet gleaming brightly.

“This is insane,” says Rhodey. “You know that, right?”

Tony shrugs. “You know what I always say. Better safe than sorry.”

“This,” says Rhodey, nodding to the computer. “This is how you make a robot go postal. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yeah,” says Tony. “Well apparently I’m an expert in that, too.”

* * *

“D-5,” says Sam, his hand already poised on a peg.

“Miss,” says Steve, without looking up. He’s had his gaze fixed on the board practically for the duration of the game, as though winning Battleship is somehow the newest way to right all the world’s wrongs. He’s quiet for a long moment, brow furrowed in concentration as he contemplates his next strategy. “A-3.”

“Shit,” says Sam, eying his pieces.

Steve grins, meeting his gaze for the first time. “I think you mean ‘hit.’”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam reaches for the pile of red pegs. “Hit, submarine.”

In the doorway, T’Challa clears his throat. He’s entered so quietly that Sam can’t be sure how long he’s been standing there. For all he knows, T’Challa might have observed the entirety of their game, which makes an instinctive sense of unease crawl over the back of his neck. Not that he sees the other man as any sort of actual threat. It’s just the soldier that’s forever embedded beneath his skin, objecting to being taken by surprise.

“Your highness,” says Steve, inclining his head, though T’Challa requested to end both those formalities weeks ago.

“We may have a job for you,” says T’Challa, without pretense. “Albeit sooner than we were thinking.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

T’Challa sighs, and for a moment Sam thinks he catches a hint of chagrin. “My advisers tell me there’s--an event--underway in New York at the moment.”

Steve frowns. “Not exactly our territory anymore.”

“I know,” says T’Challa. “But it may have to be.”

“A mission only the Avengers can take?” Sam grins. “This is gonna be good.”

T’Challa grimaces. “It appears to be ghosts. Not--Not as we view the afterlife. Ghosts that loot the city and use slime as a weapon. There seems to be sufficient reason to think that the phenomenon may become global without some form of intervention.”

Sam turns to Steve, half serious, half certain that it’s impossible to be. “I knew it. I knew this guy had a sense of humor in there somewhere.”

* * *

It happens the way these things always do: Natasha hears nothing at all for days, and then all of the shit hits the fan.

She’s been leaving carefully coded messages on the phone she sent with Thor, not because she’s particularly worried about the phenomena that have admittedly been generating something of a social media presence--so far, humans have proven to be far more dangerous than whatever these specters are or aren’t--but because she wants to know how he’s doing with his very first attempt at espionage. She doesn’t get any replies, though she can’t be sure whether that’s because he’s unable, unwilling, or simply uninterested in sharing now that she’s set him up on this mission. She’s almost decided to write the whole thing off, to conclude that Thor’s gotten himself mixed up in the latest completely embarrassing human hoax, and that maybe she should be chagrined by association.

And then Clint comes home in the middle of his shift and announces that there’s a ghost outside.

“Right,” says Natasha, crossing her arms. He’s been having entirely too much fun with this whole thing, in her opinion, watching _Ghost Jumpers_ on YouTube practically non-stop, and attempting to sneak up behind her and yell _boo!_ , as if it isn’t a pathetically lost cause in a space this small.

“Seriously,” says Clint, giving her his most earnest expression. “It’s in the dumpster. Or at least it was five minutes ago. Come on, it’ll probably still be there if we go right now.”

She sighs. “No. You are not talking me into digging through the dumpster just so you can make jokes about how I smell bad.”

“I’m not kidding,” he insists. “There’s a ghost, and it’s not the only one. They’re all over the city. One of them swiped all my I <3 NY mugs! You think it wanted them for coffee?”

“Oh,” Natasha deadpans. “Is that why you’re home in the middle of your workday? Because the ghosts stole all your merchandise? Did the dog eat your homework, too?”

“No,” says Clint, pushing past her to the closet. He opens the door and begins rifling through the contents, piling clothes and shoes on the living room floor behind him.

Natasha is about to complain, or maybe just ask if he’s lost his damn mind, when she sees what it is that he’s after: His bow has been hidden in the back corner since they moved in, retained strictly for emergencies; it’s far too conspicuous for him to use on a daily basis when they’re supposed to be living off the grid. It’s been months since he’s had the ability to work on any new tech or arrows, but he still has a quiver full, retrieved from one of his regular stashes after he’d left the Raft. It’s a bare bones arsenal compared to his usual, but his eyes light up in undeniable triumph as he lifts the bow and quiver free from their home behind the shoe rack.

“Hey baby,” he croons, kissing the curved limb of the bow before slinging the quiver onto his back. “I missed you.”

“Whoa,” says Natasha, blocking his path to the door. She’s mildly alarmed now, afraid that he might actually be losing it, might be about to blow their cover out of sheer frustration, or boredom, or--something.

“Ghosts,” says Clint, pushing past her. “In New York. Come on, Nat. Wasn’t this the whole point of staying in the country? Being able to jump in when we’re needed? Maybe you don’t believe me yet, but _believe_ me--We’re needed.”

He’s out the door and into the stairwell without another word. It’s then that she catches sight of the window, and promptly freezes.

* * *

The Compound has as many windows as possible, not to mention sky lights. Tony designed it that way, and now he’s not sure if he’s ever regretted anything quite as much. Which is a considerable achievement, when he really thinks about it.

The sky outside is pitch black, clouds shot through with green that he knows without question doesn’t come from any kind of natural phenomenon. He’s seen too many cataclysms now, wishes for a moment that he could pretend this one was simply his anxiety playing tricks. It isn’t, though, he’s certain. He can feel it in the air, that odd, otherworldly shift that came with the Chitauri, that still echoes too often in his dreams.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” he asks, tearing his gaze away from the storm clouds for a moment to study the array of new armor and other tech that’s strewn across the lab all around him. “How’s that energy signature identification coming?”

“Still inconclusive, boss,” she answers, the same result he’s been getting for the past several days.

Designing an anti-ghost armor on the basis of a bunch of YouTube videos, it turns out, is not an easy task. Tony sighs, panic tugging at the pit of his stomach as he watches a vivid green lightning bolt slice through the sky over the field outside. Something has to be done, and he doesn’t have the luxury of waiting to see if other Powers That Be will take care of it.

“I could really use a team right about now,” he tells F.R.I.D.A.Y., wishing instinctively for JARVIS instead.

“Shall I make the call, boss?” she asks, sounding hesitant if ever a robot could.

He considers for a moment, decides that he’s rapidly running out of other options. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it might be time.”

* * *

The ghost in the dumpster is real, and it also happens to be a dog. Both of these things make Natasha promise herself that she’s going to find a way to have her brain scanned just as soon as--whatever this is--has ended.

The ghost-dog is sitting on top of a giant pile of trash, digging enthusiastically through the refuse and chewing on what appears to be the remains of a pizza, now sprouting a coat of alarming green fuzz. The pizza and the dog are nearly the same color, actually, save for the fact that the dog is glowing.

For a moment all Natasha can do is gape at it dumbly. “It’s a ghost.”

“Told you,” says Clint, grinning like this is the best thing he’s ever seen, and not yet another impossible entity that probably means nothing good for the safety of their city.

“A ghost dog,” she repeats, still watching it. “Eating pizza.”

“Yep,” Clint agrees.

“I don’t understand,” says Natasha.

“Well,” says Clint, as though she might be a small child, “I guess all dogs don’t go to heaven.”

“How is it eating?” she insists, ignoring him. “How is a ghost consuming solid matter?”

Clint shrugs. “I’ve always said pizza’s out of this world.”

Natasha is about to respond to that, about to roll her eyes at him and then try to decide what, if anything, they are going to do about this entirely absurd situation, but she never gets the chance. Instead, her cell phone rings, and when she glances at the screen, the number makes her heart speed up.

“Romanoff,” she breathes, as soon as the line connects. The upside of the city’s newest insanity is that the alleyway around them is deserted, so she doesn’t have to worry about using her real name.

There’s a pause, a moment of confused sputtering on the other end of the line, and then Tony’s voice. “Nat?”

“That’s me,” she agrees, watching as Clint takes a few steps toward the ghost-dog. His bow is in his hand, but he doesn’t have an arrow out yet, seems more curious than anything else.

“I thought this crap phone was from Rogers,” says Tony, sounding equal parts surprised and irritated. “Or did you write the letter that came with it, too?”  
“Oh,” says Natasha, getting more satisfaction from his surprise than she probably ought to, given the circumstances. “No, he sent the phone and the letter. He’s just--a little out of the country, right now. Consider me his answering service.”

Tony sighs. “And where are you?”

“Not far,” says Natasha, declining to answer more specifically than that. “What did you need?”

On the other end of the line, Tony pauses. “There’s--Well. Looks like someone’s opened a portal again. Man, I’m getting sick of that move.”

“Oh,” says Natasha, wincing as Clint reaches out, apparently intending to pet the ghost-dog’s head. The little creature looks up, growls at him, and takes off like a shot, spectral feet floating several inches above the ground as it runs. “We’re aware.”

* * *

The news isn’t official, but that doesn’t do anything to stop it from getting out, from spreading across the world like a plague in its own right.

“It’s all over Facebook,” says Scott, scrolling through his phone as he takes a bite of his burger, an errant drip of ketchup narrowly avoiding the screen. “And Twitter. And Instagram. And YouTube. And TMZ. Pretty much everywhere _except_ official sources.”

“I know.” Wanda dips the end of a fry into mustard before biting it off. “Everyone is thinking about it.”

There’s been an undercurrent of anxiety about the ghosts in New York for the better part of the past week, but tonight it’s deafening, even here in Vegas, in the middle of an unassuming diner, at midnight. People are focused on little else, the world glued to the unofficial reports of a rift between the world of living and dead. It’s been a long time since she’s felt fear like this--perhaps not since Sokovia.

“You think we should do something?” asks Scott, giving voice to the thought that’s been rolling around in her head almost nonstop.

“Like what?” she counters, a hint of bitterness slipping into her tone. “Get arrested? Maybe get people killed?”

Scott shakes his head. “I mean--I don’t even have a suit, but--Feels like there ought to be something.”

“We’re alone,” says Wanda. “And we’re not wanted. That’s been made perfectly clear.”

“We could try contacting Rogers,” says Scott, his voice colored by hopeless optimism.

“ _No,_ ” says Wanda, sharply. “We will do nothing unless we have no choice.”

Scott sighs. “Okay. Okay, then I’m getting pie.”

* * *

The skies get darker as they make their way through the city, back toward Clint’s abandoned merchandise stand, or what’s left of it. There are more ghosts, too--not just dogs, but beings of all shapes and sizes, some of them human and some creatures he’d thought were found only in mythology books. Then again, five years ago he thought that about thunder gods and aliens, too. A few of the specters look up as they pass, but most seem distracted, on a mission of their own. It doesn’t seem wise to intervene at the moment, without a defined strategy or objective.

And then, all at once, it becomes painfully clear.

“Whoa,” breathes Clint, stopping so quickly that Natasha actually bumps into him, uncharacteristically clumsy.

She gives him a look. “What?”

He points to the Fox News display that towers above Times Square, currently showing footage of the chaos around the city. “Is that Thor? Dancing?”

Natasha blinks, studying the video in silence for a long moment, as though trying to convince herself once again that all of this is actually happening. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“He’s possessed,” says Clint, suddenly certain of it as he watches the movements, thinks that he can _recognize_ a body being controlled by something other than its rightful owner at this point. A new sense of urgency tugs at the pit of his stomach. “Or brainwashed. Or something. Either way, we’ve got to get to him.”

She nods, apparently no longer questioning the seriousness of this disaster. “I don’t want to know what kind of damage a brainwashed demigod can do.”

* * *

“If we do this,” says Sam, “you know there’s probably no turning back, right? We go back on the grid, we’re probably not getting off again without a trip to jail.”

“I know.” Steve makes one final check of the supplies in his go-bag before zipping it up and slinging it over his shoulder. “I know, but I don’t think we have a choice. This is too big to ignore.”

Sam raises his eyebrows as he mentally inventories the supplies he’s just seen in the bag. “You gonna bring any weapons? You don’t even have your shield.”

Steve just shrugs. “I’ve punched out Hitler, aliens, and killer robots. If I have to figure out how to punch a ghost, I will.”

* * *

Their journey through the city includes the ghosts of a dragon, multiple soldiers, and a chorus line of dancing girls who appear to have frequented Broadway in the 40s. Clint might have expected the soldiers to be the most dangerous, or at least the dragon, but in the end, none of those things appear to so much as notice their presence.

Tony meets them on the edge of Midtown, in a full new set of armor. Clint has half expected this reunion to be as dramatic as the chaos unfolding around them, given the Stark flair for histrionics, but Tony is quiet and grim, apparently recognizing the gravity of this situation.

“What’s our strategy?” asks Clint, when they’re within half a mile of the area he thinks he recognized from the news footage on the billboard. “I mean, it’s all well and good to _get_ to Thor, but what are we going to do when we _do_?”

“Tony?” asks Natasha, who’s apparently come to her own conclusions about the likelihood of winning against ghosts in a hand-to-hand fight. “You got anything in mind?” She’s got her Glocks but nothing more specialized, hasn’t expected to need a more extensive arsenal on such very short notice.

But Tony doesn’t get a chance to respond in words, because it’s then that the tide turns and they lose the luxury of being bystanders. There’s a deafening crack to Clint’s left, and he turns just in time to see the giant, horrifically decayed face of Ronald McDonald smashing through the facade of a shop, shattered glass raining down overhead. For a moment the sight is so absurd that he feels like laughing, is certain he must finally have snapped. And then he realizes what he’s seeing: A runaway ghost balloon, from a Macy’s parade in hell.

Clint ducks as Ronald thunders across the street, taking the rest of the shop down with him in a thundering avalanche of debris. When the air clears enough to see again, Clint realizes that there are more balloons: several muppets, a star, and a turkey, all with the same unearthly green glow, all impossibly decayed, yet floating along to sow destruction all the same.

Clint has his bow in position and is reaching for an arrow when he hears the first of Natasha’s shots, spins around to see the corpse of Santa Claus advancing toward her in a worm-eaten red suit and hat. The bullets go straight through the ghost, which rears back, opens its mouth impossibly wide, and spews thick green slime all over her.

“Don’t!” she sputters as Tony swoops down from his vantage point overhead, takes a few shots of his own at the ghost with some sort of new ion cannon.

This time, the shots ricochet, but still only serve to make the ghost angrier. Ignoring Tony, it falls on Natasha with otherworldly speed, getting its hands around her throat and crushing.

“Hey!” Clint calls to it, aiming for distractions. He nocks his arrow quickly and lets it fly toward the nearest balloon, watching in dismay as it sticks into the turkey’s side like nothing more than an irritating thorn.

And then the ghosts are on them from every direction.

* * *

Of all the possible deaths Natasha has seriously considered, _Ghost Santa_ will probably always be the most bizarre. But for all the times she’ll deny it afterward, there is an actual moment of certainty, of the calm that comes over her when a part of her _knows_ that she is going to die.

And then it’s over, just as quickly.

The ghost’s grip on her throat vanishes, her vision spotted with oxygen deprivation stars as she inhales in a rush, coughing. But it isn’t just _this_ ghost that’s let go, she realizes a moment later, it’s the disaster as a whole. She’s vaguely aware of Clint’s hand on her shoulder, of _things_ rushing by around her, of the darkness overhead lifting.

By the time her eyesight’s cleared, there’s no sign of the creatures, or the balloons, or the black clouds in the sky. There’s nothing but a sunny day, and the feeling of being exposed, stunned crowds of people standing on every block. Even the coat of slime that’s been cooling on her skin is gone.

“What was that?” asks Tony, belatedly opening the faceplate on his suit.

Natasha squints into the distance, shakes her head. The building she watched collapse a few short minutes ago is standing pristinely to her right, advertising 20% off fashion wigs and hats. On this very rare occasion, she finds herself at an utter loss for words.

“I think,” says Clint, “that someone may have beaten us to the punch. Which, given the circumstances, is probably for the best.”

“Sure,” Tony agrees, “if slightly awkward.” He gestures back and forth between himself and Clint. “Was this truce pending the apocalypse only?”

Clint sighs, shrugs. “You don’t call Ross, I think we’re good.”

“Funny thing,” says Tony. “My phone just doesn’t seem to connect to his phone anymore. Tried to fix it, but what can you do?”

“We need to get out of here,” Natasha interrupts, holstering her gun and glancing around. Nobody’s taken any notice of them yet, far too disoriented by everything that’s just happened. It won’t last, though, she knows. Soon the news crews will descend like vultures.

“Back to work?” asks Clint, looking for a moment as though he might actually have preferred death by ghost balloon.

“About that,” says Tony. “I seem to have a lot of food lying around at the Compound. And a lot of chairs at the table. Like, way too many, and they keep getting dusty. So if anyone wanted dinner before disappearing again, I might be able to make that happen.”

Natasha glances at Clint, then jumps when her cell phone chirps, a specific tone she hasn’t heard in months. She fumbles to pull it out, nearly drops the thing before managing to read the message incredulously.

  
_Wings and shield on ground_  
_rendezvous NYC 30 mins_

Tony is frowning at her when she looks up again. “Problem?”

Natasha shakes her head, decides that apparently nothing is too crazy for this day. Because that’s the thing about New York City.

“Not at all. But I think we’re going to have two more for dinner.”

* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The lab is _nice_. Maybe not as luxurious as Tony would have made it, if he’d been the one in charge of the design, but he can’t deny that the place has class.

What really stands out, though, is the sheer _amount_ of tech that’s stacked on every surface, things he doesn’t even recognize. He can see how sophisticated it is, though, can see the master-level skill that’s gone into all of it. His fingers are already itching to get on the specs, to begin to understand the things he’s seeing.

“Dr. Holtzmann?” he calls, taking a few steps into the room, which appears to be unoccupied at first glance.

“Tony Stark!” comes the enthusiastic response, and it’s then that he sees the woman in the back, her eyes obscured behind a thick pair of goggles. “Wait until you see the toys I’ve got!”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback makes my life!


End file.
